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Archive for the ‘Sporty-type things’ Category

I think we can all agree that the State of Washington and the country in general are in financial shit-dom.  And yet, when you stop to contemplate the amount of money we, as a nation, are willing to pay the coaches of our public institutions (let alone the money we are willing to spend on professional sports), your mind will melt and run out of your bunghole.  It’s fucking ridiculous and is just another sign of how fucked up our priorities are.

I know what you are thinking:  “You, HorseKnuckle, are just a bitter, angry, sports-hating fag who was always picked last for every team in school.”  To which I reply:  “You, vapid ankle-biter, are exactly right!  Kiss my ass!”  But hear me out.

Apparently, we just HAD to have a new coach at the Washington University that is over in the grass near the border of fucking Malaysia, or something.  I don’t know or care why, but I know there was already a coach in place, AND HE DIDN’T STAND BY WHILE HIS ASSISTANT COACH RAPED 10 YEAR OLD BOYS IN THE FOOTBALL SHOWERS!!  Shocker, I know.  So, why fire him?  Beats the fag out of me.  Nevertheless, he was fired yesterday and replaced by some Texas yea-hole who has never played college football but who allegedly locked a player in a closet with a head injury or quelque chose comme ça.  That would be fine with me, except the dude from Texas is now THE HIGHEST PAID PUBLIC EMPLOYEE IN THE STATE OF WASHINGTON!  No fucking bullshit.

People of intelligence would say, “Well, how much could it possibly be?  I mean public employees are not known for earning top dollar like people in the private sector.  What is it, a few hundred thousand dollars a year?”  To which I would reply, “You are clearly stoned because a few hundred thousand dollars a year to play sports all fucking day is a lot of money.”  And then I would blow your intelligent underpants right off of you by telling you that his salary will be . . . wait for it . . .

11

Shut Your ASS!

Indeed.  Oh, plus performance incentives.  Do the math.  Fuck it, nevermind, pretty.  I’ll do it for you:  more than $2.2 million/year.  FOR FOOTBALL!

As shocked as you may be by that, take it from me:  It’s only the tip of the iceberg of misplaced priorities in this state (and the country).  Rounding out the top 5 public employee salaries are . . . wait for it . . . oh fuck it.  More coaches!  All of them.

  • UW Football Coach Seamore Cash makes almost $2 million/year
  • UW Basketball Coach Papi Warbucks makes $1.1 million/year
  • WSU Basketball Coach Johnny Deepockets makes in the upper 6 figures (just shy of $750,000)
  • UW Ass’t Football Coach Gary “Second in Command” Greenbacks also makes in the upper 6 figures ($650,000+)

[N.B. Names have been modified slightly to protect the guilty.]

You, too, can find this information by simply looking through the records of the Washington Office of Financial Management (or mismangement, as the case may be).  Just think of the ways in which that money could be much better spent by the State:  tuition reduction (seems obvious), education (more/better paid teachers, perhaps), social services, prescription medicine subsidies, health care, infrastructure, transportation, parks and rec, and the list goes on and on until you want to squeeze your nuts so hard you pass out.

Fucking fuckers.

PostyScripty:  I want to make sure I’m clear that the salaries paid are not out of tax revenue, but out of athletics revenue.  In other words, the money generated by athletics is kept by the athletic departments to fund athletics.  None of it is or can be diverted to each institution’s mission of education or to other state expenses, even though it is all revenue generated by a public institution.  Don’t get me wrong:  I think sports are an important component of education and can make all sorts of arguments about why they have a place in education and in people’s fat, sedentary lives.  My point, lest I be less than clear, is that it maddens and saddens me to see that, in a country where protestors are marching in the street about our bad economy and socio-economic inequity, we celebrate the hiring of a football coach who will make upwards of $2 million PER YEAR coaching for a PUBLIC institution, and many of us (and I actually mean you) rush out to spend gobs of money on season tickets or donate big-time cash to an athletic department.  I don’t care where that money comes from–it could even grow on a god damn tree on WSU’s campus for all I care.  What I find alarming is that when so many have so little, we (you) are happy to see a coach make millions while our teachers will make on average $54,000 this year, our state legislative representatives will make less than that (both reps and senators), and the Governor of our state makes only $166,000 to serve as the de facto CEO of a entity that employs more than 112,000 people.

I’ll say it again:  $2,250,000 per year to coach football =  misplaced priorities.

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I am an angry runner.  Hell, I am an angry person.  I think we have established that in at least one or more previous blog entries.

This afternoon, I went for a run through the lovely and usually peaceful Ravenna Park.  I ran down into the creek bottom first, and then climbed the nasty hill back up through the upper park, past the playground and picnic areas, and back home around the south side of Green Lake.  It was sunny and too warm for a shirt–which is just how I like my running weather–and the sunlight had changed from summer white to end of summer golden with its dark, elongating shadows.  I felt light and lean and fast and sassy, especially for a queen who is on the cusp of a big birthday, whose  brown hair is quickly being replaced by sliver, and who has finally put his L4/L5 disc back where the bitch belongs.

The roundtrip run is almost exactly 5 miles door to door,  which means (and here we go with the angry) that I averaged one fucking freak per mile today.  Perfect. 

Freak No. 1:  Know-It-All Dog Woman.  Before I go to town on this bitch, you should know a couple of things.  First, I almost always run with one or both of my dogs tethered to my waist.  They are a breed that was born to run.  They love it, and it is their job AND their hobby.  They are four-season runners, like me.  They have run with me when it was below freezing, and they have run with me when it was scorching, blazing hot.  TONGUES-HANGING-IN-THE-DIRT HOT, people.   Rain, snow, wind, sun, hail, the Apocalypse–you name it. 

Second,  let me paint you a picture.  Let’s say that you are standing on the path, looking up Ravenna Creek.  You see a man running downhill toward you at roughly a 7 minute mile pace with a happy, healthy, 55-pound, hunting-type dog running right beside him on a leash that is slack because she has been trained not to pull or stray off course.   Because the man is wearing little, tiny running shorts; expensive, fancy running shoes; sleak, light, aerodynamic sunglasses; and no shirt whatsoever, you have to be blinder than a bat not to notice that he is  6’1″ tall, 175 pounds, lean, quite muscular for a runner, tan, perfectly manscaped, well-preserved for his age, glistening with sweat, very probably gay (I mean, what straight guy looks like . . . wait . . . where was I?).  Anyway, anyone with a pulse can easily tell that I am not a novice runner, and neither are my dogs.

Third, stopping a serious runner mid-stride to ask him or her anything except to perform life-saving techniques is strictly douchebaggery.  And yet, lately there has been an epidemic of people stopping me to ask me questions or for directions or to pet my dogs.  From their cars, on their bikes, walking toward me, standing in the path.  Please STOP IT!  Feel free to ask any one of the other 10,000 people who are bumbling around in our lovely parks and neighborhoods on any given day.

Now back to Dog Woman.  I am running full-tilt toward her, her children, and her husband, and she starts flagging me down.  By the time I stop, I have passed her, but I can hear her saying, “Your dog, your dog!”  Alarmed, I look at my sweet puppy, and much to my surprise, she is not missing a limb, bleeding profusely, or even frothing at the mouth.  She’s fine, although quite perturbed that we have stopped.  I say, “What?”  The Dog Bitch says, “It is too hot for that today, and the least you could do is let her get in the water to get a drink and cool down.”  Mind you, it was only 70 dgrees today in the sun, 65 in the cool, damp shade of Ravenna Park.  I respond, “She’s fine.  We do this all the time, even when it is much warmer than this.”  Unimpressed, Dog Bitch says, “Well, she’s panting,” to which I reply, “Of course she is.  So am I.  We are exercising.”  Now that I am irritated, to say the least, I ask, “Are you a veterinarian?”  You will not be surprised to hear that she’s not a vet.  Only one other explanation sprang to mind for her rude behavior, so I asked her one more, admittedly rhetorical, question, “Well, then, did you happen to stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night?”  Blank.  Stare.  Off I ran.

Freak No. 2: Lecherous Man on Bike.  As I am running up the hill in the park, a man on a bicycle is slowly coming down the hill toward me.  When I am about 50 yards from him, he stops completely and stares at me with an odd smirk that makes me feel, well, icky.  He stands astride his bike and watches me run toward and past him, still smirking.  ICK ICK ICK ICKY BARF!  Have you heard Ke$ha’s song Dinosaur?  Dude, do I look like the kind of guy who has to pick up men at the public park? 

Freak(s) No. 3:  Smelly Stoners.   As I crest the hill, a pack of smelly, dirty 20-somethings and their dog, which is on a leash that NO ONE IS HOLDING, are stumbling toward me.  I must be downwind from them, because YOWZA.  It smelled a lot like a hot, dirty armpit WITH A DEAD SKUNK IN IT.   My dog is doing her job, but she is interrupted by Stoner Dog, who begins to run toward us barking.  The Stoners all regain consciousness and start scrambling around to catch Stoner Dog, but not before I have to stop.  And wait.  And get a contact high.  Dear Smelly Stoners:  Hempfest is over.  Move the fuck on.

Freak No. 4:  High School Deadbeat.  I am now on the sidewalk, advancing toward Green Lake, when 3 high school deadbeats are coming toward me, 2 loser boys and a girl (I think) with a VERY unfortunate hair cut, a ring through her septum, and her older brother’s hand-me-downs.  I always keep to the very right side of the course I am running so that my darling doggie can run in the grass and not on the pavement/rocks/etc.   The girl-type thing is walking next to one loser boy, and the other is behind them.  S/he is walking directly toward me, and the little asshole doesn’t move over or budge an inch.  I have to step off the sidewalk, into the grass, all without wrapping myself or my dog around the tree planted in the grass strip.  Despite the fact that I am old enough to be these kids’ father, I take the low road and scream, “MOVE THE FUCK OVER,” as I pass them.  S/he/it turns around and acts like s/he/it’s going to chase me down and kick my ass, in its baggy, droopy, oversized jeans and flip-flops.  Good luck with that.

Freak(s) No. 5:  Shitty Drivers.  You know who you are.  I don’t care that you’re late to pick up your rugrats from Montessori or you’re racing to Whole Foods to buy an organic, vegan, free-range dinner before your lesbian lover gets home or the gas pedal on your god damn Prius is stuck to the floor.  You must stop for pedestrians at intersections and crosswalks.  I don’t mean to get all lawyerly on you, but it’s the fucking law.

Now, this freak needs to go to bed.  Moral of the story:  Leave me alone and stay out of my way.

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Remember the days of your gay youth?  P.E. class.  The two biggest jocks in the class are picked as team captains.  Then they–in the cruelest hazing ritual known to gays next to the swirly–go back and forth picking all of the other boys for their teams until there you are, awkard and unathletic, the last man standing.

Well the gays are sick and tired and they aren’t going to take it any more!  Leagues of gays are popping up everywhere.  Gay soccer.  Gay baseball.  Gay swimming.  Gay softball (or is it lesbian softball?).

And heterosexuals and you crazy BISEXUALS need not apply.  Payback is a bitch, bitches.

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